Lying prone in a coffin of dust, a replica, of times long gone, of wonderful memories turned malignant poisons so forgotten that they wreak havoc in silence throughout my bones, curdling my blood even as I touch it with longing before my fingertips it crumbles as if Life were remprimanding this is a ghost and a shadow these dreams hold no joy each new joy I discover has some deep element of this past and draws me back to the solitary thought... naivete and dreams and extraordinary happiness come back from the dead to haunt the tomb of my soul but cease to be what they were born as. Bitter with the flavour of forbidden fruit, I want to retch the stink of this happiness. Yes upon the shelf it still sits, gathering swabs of death and dust upon its fringes, and still my heart bows low to its overwhelming power and desire. If I could but touch the hem, I too would be healed. But in such a way that I would join the dead and heartless and become immune to the throb that I have stifled. The headache, since my heart is no more, would eat me, and we could become one. Content and at peace. I will fly what I fear, for fear that it too will fade as forever becomes nothing and nothing, forever.
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